The Pale Verdict
The train screamed through the valley, a long, metallic groan that vibrated in the bones of anyone foolish enough to stand near the tracks. Elara stood there, clutching the handle of her steamer trunk, the wood warped by the damp Scottish mist that clung to the hills like a shroud. She was waiting for the 4:15 to Glasgow, but the conductor had said no stops until Dunblane. That gave her three...
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